Monday, September 28, 2009

818. Things of the Past - Theodore Weiss

“Your great-grandfather was . . .”

And Mrs. C, our tart old Scotslandlady, with her stomping legs,four bristles sprouted from her chin-wart, she who briskly chats awayabout Montrose, founder of her clan,as though she’s just now freshfrom tea with him, regards youincredulously, a bastard gargoyleoff some bastard architecture,one grown topsy-turvy: “Not to knowyour great-grandfather! How doyou live? O you Americans!” Shecannot see what freedom it affords,your ignorance, a space sweptclear of all the clutter of liveslived. And yet who can dismissher words entirely? It burdens too,this emptiness, pervasive presencenot a room away that, no matterhow you hammer at its wall,refuses to admit you. As thoughyou woke and in a place you thoughtfamiliar, then had a sense (whatis it that has been disturbed?)of one you never met yet somehowknew—looks echoing among the dustypictures: that myopic glassreflecting, like a sunset lingeredinside trees, a meditative smile:a breath warm to your cheek,your brow: the hand (whose?)moving on your blanket in a gesturethat you fail to recognize

yet know it as you knowthe taste through oranges of sun-light current in them still—

then gone as you began to stir.And for a moment dawn seems lostas in a mist, seems wistful

for a feeling it cannotachieve . . . the sun breaks through,an instant medleying the leaves.